


Two Twisted Paws

by niick (orphan_account)



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Character Study, Gen, I just wanted to ramble about snufkin, I wax poetic just a little, Short One Shot, Snusmumriken | Snufkin Has Paws and a Tail, There is no plot, but hey, he dance and that's it, snufkin dances, snufkin plays the harmonica, springtime spirit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:54:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24167665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/niick
Summary: a short Snufkin character study.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Two Twisted Paws

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something a little closer to poetry (which is,,, my preferred medium) so here you go! It's very short and has no plot whatsoever, but I wanted to cram it as full of imagery as I could while still making it readable. I hope you enjoy this look into my chaotic writing style!

* * *

The sun filters soft through the trees, and the smell of grass and wisteria fills the air. The sky is painted in the dazzling blue of the early spring, and fluffy clouds like white paint-strokes swirl through the expanse of it. Dappled light dances across the verdant grass, joined by the dancing of two small and clawed feet. Black fur intermingles with the swishing weeds, and a light melody lilts over the breeze.

A discarded frock lays green and forgotten among the clutter of a pack and tent, nearly blending in with the reeds surrounding it. Smoke from the smouldering ashes of what once was a campfire swirls through the air, leaving the pleasant scent of sweet wood hanging in the wind.

The clawed feet perform a step sequence that is both intricate and improvised, and a high, bubbling laugh rings out over the music. Black paws against soft, green grass, he twists and turns to a rhythm only he can hear. Notes come smoothly from the harmonica at his mouth, the melody happy and yet filled with such unimaginable yearning.

The mumrik’s face is round and furry but is worn ragged with dirt. His tangled, auburn hair reaches nearly his shoulders, and it is knotted with so many twigs and leaves that you would think him part bush. The same color is blended into his fur, too, the short, stiff hairs on his nose twitching in the flower-laden air.

The hat on his head has seen better days, but it is held together with intricate stitches done clearly with love. Flowers are woven into the fabric, and they add their fragrance to the wisteria in the breeze. One long, blue feather sticks out at an angle from the brim, shining with an opalescent sheen. It flaps and twists as he dances, managing to stay attached despite the twirling and whistling of the wind around him.

Without his frock, dark, tangled fur is visible on his arms and legs. It flows along with him as he dances, making his legs look twisted and strange. His feet are bare, boots long discarded by a sturdy, yellow tent. As they step in sequence, they look closer to claws than toes, the gentle actions seeming foreign upon such sharpened feet.

His arms are scarred and scraggly from years of travel, but there is a lithe musculature to them that suggests he is no stranger to work. They spin around him as though with a mind of their own, their color getting lost in the surrounding tree trunks as he dances.

A foot catches on a twisted root, and its owner falls down with a soft _thump_ into the grass.

The mumrik lays on his back in the sun, basking in the spring light. His dark, crooked tail flicks lazily around his feet, and another, quieter laugh splits the air. He holds up both paws in front of his face, looking through his furry, twisted fingers to the clouds beyond. He marvels in the spontaneity of the sky, in the way the clouds wander with no purpose through the heavens.

He yearns to be as free as those clouds.

Placing his harmonica to his face, the mumrik begins his melody anew, springing to his feet with practiced ease. The flowers seem to bend around him as he twirls there, music springing soft from his lips. He is more careful with his steps now, but there is still a sense of irregularity in the way he spins, as if he couldn’t give a care in the world where his feet take him.

That much is true, at least. He barely even registers where the road has taken him this time, allowing himself to be lost in his whirling dance. The sun is welcome on his face after weeks of travel, and he revels in its lovely warmth.

When he finally stops dancing, the day is deep into the afternoon. The bright chirping of the morning birds has long been replaced by the cacophony of evening crickets, bringing with them a new song to move to.

His breath comes quick and gasping, but the exertion feels good. He welcomes the soreness in his legs, in his feet, much preferred over the stiffness of sitting. He turns his smile once again to the sky, watching the blue fade towards pale purples and reds. 

With a practiced motion, the mumrik swipes a low-hanging apple from a nearby tree, the fruit crisp and shining in the afternoon sun. His sharp canines make a soft crunching sound as he takes a ravenous bite, the white flesh of the fruit standing stark against his black claws.

He wipes the juice off of his contented face with his discarded frock, breathing a contented sigh. Slipping the green garment over his head, he gathers together his few belongings. He can feel in his heart - no, his _bones_ \- the need to move. The urge to travel runs in his mumrik blood, and he knows it’s hopeless to ignore it. Brown boots with sturdy bottoms are intricately laced up to his ankles, and he’s gone.

Snufkin lifts his nose to the wind, trusting it to take him to where he’s meant to be.

* * *


End file.
